II: SAR CAP

The desert sun was blazing into the cockpit of the F-14D as Derwent pointed out several landmarks to his greenhorn RIO.

"See that tall peak over there? That's Dinosaur Mountain. We are now exactly ten nautical miles directly north of Iffa. Until several years ago the attack pukes used to dump their bombs there prior to recovering at the base. Then the Asranians built a surveillance radar facility on it, and we had to stop doing that."

"What's with the 'we'?"

"I used to fly Big Ugly before I switched to this baby." To emphasize his fondness for his aircraft, Derwent did a snap roll. "You can't afford to be choosy 'bout missions here. She's also tricked out as a Bombcat, but I haven't gotten all the avionics in yet, so I'm limited to a pretty basic CCIP sight for mud moving."

"A Bombcat? With that TARPS pod hanging under this thing's ass?"

"Like I said, you can't be choosy. This way I can take on all kinds of missions. I'm not aiming to pull out of Asran yet, but I'd like the money to be there if and when I want to. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, you'll see the Dinosaur a lot because it's where we delouse the returning flights before coming to Iffa."

"Oh." Heberlein gave voice to the question that had been nagging him. "Mike, what happened to your previous RIO?"

"Ah, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you. He got himself full of mortar fragments one night last month, when the rebels raided the base. He's dead."

The silence from the rear seat was deafening.

------oOo------

They were passing over a small farm to the northwest of the city, its irrigated crops startling green circles against the tan desert sand, when a call came in from the local Tactical Air Control Center. It was a request for air cover for an ongoing search and rescue operation.

"Hot damn," the pilot exclaimed. There was an exchange that the backseater failed to understand for a moment. Then it dawned on him: Derwent was haggling with the person on the other end for his fee.

"Sixty-five on top of the gas and any munitions I might expend," the pilot insisted. The person objected. "Look, sixty-two's as low as I go. I've got my backseater to think about."

The argument ended with a badly overmodulated "We'll talk about it when you get back," from the unknown caller. The Tomcat banked to the south, and Heberlein could hear Derwent chuckling.

What in God's name have I dropped myself into? he asked himself. He knew the mercenaries' payment system; it was explained to him in excruciating detail before he ever got here, by an ex-USMC Harrier jock who lived through Asran himself. Still, it was jarring to hear loyalty and duty being reduced to monetary terms.

"Iffa Control, Magic Zero-One," the pilot spoke. "Have a little change in my schedule." The throttles opened, and the speed slowly climbed to 520 knots as the Tomcat headed towards Heberlein's first mission.

------oOo------

To the RIO's eyes, the array of wadis known as the Kuhar, situated to the southwest of the capital, looked like some god had taken a rake to the stony desert countryside to try and cultivate life in this desolate place, then given up and let the furrows be.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Derwent warned him as they approached the area. "This is a bad place to be in. There are lots of little nooks for those pesky SA-7s and SA-16s to come out of." Then he made the call to the TACC. Lox sweet, two 'Winders, four hundred rounds of 20mm and two hours' playtime.

"Roger," came the reply. "Be advised MANPADS reported in the area. Unconfirmed."

"Jeez, thanks."

Derwent set up a right-hand orbit above the indicated SAR area at 12,000 feet—8,000 plus 4 thousand more for good measure, to keep them out of any Igla's range. Heberlein's EW set showed there were no threats in the immediate area, so the pilot slowed down to 420 knots. The Tomcat's swing wings automatically motored forward to compensate.

"You see anything down there?"

"Negative, except for that pillar of smoke."

"Okay, we'll wait. Rescue should be here soon."

About ten minutes later the chopper package contacted them. Two Blackhawks, one with ESSS, escorted by two AH-1Z Supercobras, would do the pickup. Rolling in just before them to sanitize the area would be one OA-10 and 3 A-10s, collectively known as Ripper Flight, also from Iffa.

"Hey, paisano, good morning," Mike called as he spotted the sand-camouflaged flying tanks zooming in low from the northeast. "Bet you're grumpy having to get out of bed this early in the day."

"Yeah, good morning too, Mike," came the bass-toned reply of the OA-10 pilot. "Heard you got yourself a new backseater. He any good?"

"I can't tell yet, Louie. This is his orientation hop."

"Orientation? Hahaha! His first outing and he's already in action. Good luck to you."

Heberlein waited for the connection to clear, then pressed his own transmit button. "Thanks."

"Roger, Gorilla and Snake Flights, Rippers, let's all go to three-three-seven." The air went silent as the members of the rescue group switched frequencies.

"Gary, change channels, but don't talk."

"Your wish is my command."

"Huh. Maybe someday I'll dig a genie out of the sand down there and wish myself infinite amounts of pussy. Anything on the scope?"

"No. Nothing on both counts."

"Well, I guess we can just sit back and watch the show." The radio started to come alive as the various SAR elements began to coordinate their actions.

------oOo------

Giovanni Saffoni was a coarse-mannered brute of a man, the perfect complement to his A-10. He loved the bird so much that when his squadron transitioned to the hated F-16 he took it here, to the only other place outside of Afghanistan and Iraq that was using the ungainly, slow-moving Fairchild Republic/Rockwell contraption in combat.

Flying in an OA-10 meant he had to control the various rescue package elements. It was easier than usual, since all the choppers and Superhogs had radios that could talk to each other. He passed lead to his wingman, then peeled off to gain altitude.

Once he reached position, he tried once more to raise the pilot of the downed aircraft. He was rewarded with the ululating wail of a beeper, but there was no voice. He picked a point near the funeral pyre and dove toward it, searching for any sign of life on the ground.

Fingers of tracer fire leapt up to greet him. He tipped his A-10 on one wing, passing between them, and saw a gray-bagged figure sprawled on the ground, waving to him. He leveled off and wagged his wings, signaling to the man that help was on the way.

"Okay, folks, I've spotted our package, Striker Two. He seems okay, but can't use voice. Rippers, set up for strafing, with runs from Florida to New York. Hold high and dry until I call you. FAC is in to mark."

Saffoni waited for the requisite two minutes, then snap-turned his baby around and headed back into the seething cauldron of fire.

------oOo------

"Magic Zero-One, TACC. Gold Control has trade for you."

Mike muttered the usual 'ah, shit' before keying the radio. "Roger, switching to Gold Control." He told Gary to dial in Gold Control. "Gold Control, this is Magic Zero-One. Be advised, we are not decked out for long-distance shooting."

"Roger, Zero-One, we're aware of that. Trade is one ALS Piranha, off your nose at bearing zero-nine-eight, angels two-four, distance eighty-three kilometers."

"Ah, roger, Gold Control. Zero-One is moving to intercept."

While Mike was busy setting the F-14's course, Gary asked, "What the hell is a Piranha? I've never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It's an old design, done by a Swedish consortium of scientists way back in the 1980s. It never took off until an Arab aircraft conglomerate picked it up and ran a few thousand copies off the assembly line."

"So, what the hell is it? Is it a threat?"

"Close up it is. It's a delta-wing one-seater with a canard, one engine, no fly-by-wire, and no radar. Out here they're as common as flies on cattle dung, since they're so cheap, and since no one makes Fagots and Fishbeds and Fitters and Tigers any more. And because everyone and his brother in this region has good quality mobile GCI truck sets, the Piranha's lack of a radar isn't much of a drawback. In fact, we're starting to see some types modified with high-quality IRST cameras in the nose so they can fire off-bore Magics and Archers at their opponents."

"Shit. We've only got two Sidewinders, why'd you take the call?"

"Money, my dear boy. Tell you what, we haven't talked about it, so let's make a deal now. Fifty-fifty is my usual slice."

"That's fine with me, Mike. Now about that Piranha..."

"You worry too much. I've tangled with them before, and only needed the gun."

"Geez, I hope you know what you're doing."

"Trust me. You know, like what that Sledgehammer guy on TV used to say. Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Now do your job and break him out on the set, so I can start planning his demise."

------oOo------

Saffoni noted the departure of the Tomcat and shrugged inwardly. Hell, they didn't need him. At low altitudes ground fire was a worse threat than interceptors, and with the dual Sidewinders on their starboard wing launchers, they could take care of themselves anyway.

He fired his second white phosphorous rocket of the day and keyed his mike. "Alright, Rippers. Strafe along my smoke, but don't hit west of it. You might hit our guy."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

"Roger, cleared in hot, guns only, whoever's first. Call the FAC in sight."

After around thirty seconds there was the call: "Two's in hot." One A-10 snap-turned into the line of attack. There was a thin trail of smoke which issued from the GAU-8 30mm cannon in the nose of the aircraft, then the Hog pulled away. Fountains of dirt rose from the ground as HE slugs slammed into the earth and exploded, sometimes carrying with them bits of flesh and clothing and equipment.

"Two's off."

"Three's in hot."

------oOo------

"There he is, Mike. I think Gold Control is trying to put us on a collision course."

"Yeah, they usually do that. We usually call our own once we get into missile range."

"Right." The seconds ticked away, and the miles sped past them.

------oOo------

Lieutenant Mustapha was having a bad day. He was running a routine patrol with his wingman when they were asked to investigate a portion of the Kuhar. They made several passes over it, and on the last ground fire reached out to them, and his Mirage F1 got hit by a SAM. He managed to nurse the crippled aircraft away from the place and broadcast a Mayday, but the engine ground itself into a frozen mess and he was forced to eject. His wingman, who had gotten peppered as well, had to leave him for an emergency landing at Asran's International Airport.

Unfortunately for him, like most pilots he suffered injuries in the bailout. In his case, his spine was compressed, making movement painful and difficult, and he had sprained his left ankle.

Now he was lying in a shallow ditch in the earth, surrounded by the sheer walls of the wadi on two sides. The rebels in the area hadn't pinpointed him yet; Fortune had allowed him that grace. He squinted into the cloudless sky and rechecked his emergency radio for the umpteenth time. No, as far as he could tell it was still broken. High above him, a speck showed the continuing presence of the mercenaries who were supposed to rescue him. No one in the Royal Asranian Air Force liked them—at least, no one he knew. But in exchange for somewhat trivial sums of money the heathens did do their jobs well, he had to admit. He just hoped this was one of those times.

------oOo------

The strafing and clearing continued for fifteen minutes, then Saffoni made a low pass and told Gorilla and Snake flights it was okay to try for their target.

The lead Snake pilot broke into a feral grin. His name was Bondoc, and he had been itching for some action for some weeks now.

"Roger, Ripper Leader, Snakes coming in first. Gorillas, keep back until we've swept the area."

The pair of chunky-angled, thin-bodied attack helicopters whirred into the pickup vicinity and found only meager opposition confronting them. They hosed the enemy with their miniguns and let loose a hail of rockets at a particularly stubborn group of laagered personnel carriers before calling the Blackhawks in.

------oOo------

Some distance away the Tomcat and Piranha were close to IR missile range.

"Gold Control, Magic One is Judy," Mike transmitted, indicating that he was taking over the engagement.

"Copy, Magic One."

"Judy?" Gary strained against the seat straps. "You mean you can see the fucker already?"

"Yeah. Kinda handy. Are we dead on his nose?"

"Yep. No offset. He's heading straight for us, slightly climbing."

"Ah, roger."

The seconds passed, and there was the wail of the EW set, indicating that an IR missile had been launched at them.

"Missile–!"

"I see it, shut up," Mike grunted as he snapped the 'Cat into a barrel roll and punched out a stream of flares. Some seconds later Gary could see the missile pass far below their inverted canopy, heading for the decoys.

"You shithead!" the pilot shouted at the same time his backseater gripped the DACT handles on the canopy rail and, tracking the missile, yelled they were clear. "You spoiled my solution!" Gary felt the Tomcat wiggle a bit, then heard the brrrt of the M61 cannon. A stream of orange tracers came from the port side of the Tomcat's nose, arcing off into the blue.

What the fuck is he shooting at? the RIO wondered. Several seconds later it became evident, as a blossom of fire appeared in the sky in front of them.

"Haha!" Mike boomed into the intercom. "And another one bites the dust!" Gary watched a fiery trail slowly begin to trace itself in the thin air, heading for the earth below. "That's sixty thousand lovely ones for us, my boy!"

"Crap, man," the backseater said. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"What? Oh, that wasn't for you, that was for that poor fucker." He dipped the wing towards the spiraling Piranha. "See? I told you you worried too much." The pilot got back on the horn, to inform Gold Control of their situation, and that they were returning to the SAR site. Then he attaboyed his new RIO and told him he did good so far.

------oOo------

Three hours later found the entire SAR crew in the Blue Horse, a bar just outside the main gates of Iffa AB. It was where the mercs went to cool off, Mike said, and was owned by the family of one of the first generations of Asranian aerial mercenaries—no doubt he knew that such a place was needed.

They were all at the bar, nursing, imbibing, and spilling various drinks. Already buzzing with the poison of their choice, the airplane drivers, the chopper pukes and SAR crewmen were singing one of their most profane songs, as the injury-treated, bemused (and horrified) Lieutenant Mustapha, who confined himself to an orange juice with soda water, looked on.

Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm,
That's the place to lose all your charm
A place where you'll surely come to harm
Oh, my Pigfucker Farm

Oh, Pigfucker Farm is dandy
It looks like a shithole's daddy
Since the mortars are always handy
Ain't no peace in a place this sandy

Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm,
Its pilots are no good at all
They puke in the pit, step in their shit,
And outside it have no forehead at all.

Oh, Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm...